Blood of the Dragon
by Lady Silverbird
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been described as inhuman before. Maybe they weren't entirely wrong. Sherlock's 33rd birthday arrives, along with an ancient family secret, a potentially-deadly inheritance, and a very big problem. The Hunt is on, and Moriarty is getting dangerously close as Sherlock grapples with his family legacy. (Pre-Fall and eventually Sherlolly.)
1. Coming of Age

**A/N: yes, I wrote this after seeing _The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug._ Don't judge, that movie was amazeballs. I just thought it'd be interesting to see how I could turn Bilbo and Smaug…into John and Sherlock…and this is what I got. Ta-da!**

* * *

_Bored._

Sherlock Holmes despised being bored with a passion. It was enough to induce madness (though according to John, he was already quite mad). His mind was left with nothing to do, so he lay back and sank into his mind palace. Somebody needed to be murdered. Hopefully in an interesting, not-boring way that would give him something to think about, something to deduce. Of course, John would consider his want for someone else to die so he would be entertained quite unhealthy. But Sherlock found that didn't much bother him. If he was entertained, why _would_ it bother him that someone else died, provided that it wasn't one of his acquaintances?

As he lay there sorting through his mind palace, absently wandering with Redbeard trotting faithfully beside him, a sudden thought struck him: _tomorrow is my birthday._ Strange that he should remember that now. He hadn't celebrated his birthday for ten years, except for the traditional phone call from his parents, which he never understood. What was the importance of a birthday? It's only purpose was to mark another year that said individual survived without dying a catastrophic death. Speaking of catastrophic deaths, he really was starting to want Lestrade to call with a case. How sad was that? He actually _wanted_ Lestrade to call him. Shudder. Another shudder when he realised that John would probably want to do something ridiculously sentimental for his birthday. But at the same time...he found that he didn't mind. It almost scared him, sometimes, thinking about how indulgent he was when it came to the matter of Doctor John Hamish Watson.

Blowing out a slow breath, Sherlock pushed to his feet. The hell with it. He'd head downstairs, experiment some despite John's rule about no experimenting after 11:00. As he walked into the living room, the sound of the clock chiming softly drew his attention. Midnight. He was now 33 years old. As he took a step towards the kitchen, sudden pain ripped into his stomach.

An involuntary gasp was drawn from his throat as he doubled over, long arms wrapped around himself. _That cannot possibly be good._ He had felt hunger pangs before, a mild thing, but this was more akin to someone driving a knife into his stomach. Sherlock couldn't even get a proper breath into his lungs, as it currently felt like a giant hand was squeezing his lungs tightly. His brain scrambled for any explanation for such a reaction, but he came up with nothing. The pain in his midsection suddenly doubled, even though it seemed impossible for it to get any worse. What had been a jagged knife became a white-hot, barbed lance, and he very nearly passed out. Oh, God, it hurt. He must have been in pain if he was invoking a deity which he didn't even believe in. Abruptly, all the starch ran out of him, and Sherlock slumped to his knees on the living room floor, still struggling to breathe, feeling as if an invisible attacker was trying to carve out his entrails without an anesthetic or numbing agent. Like a water balloon being burst, the coiled knot of agony in his gut suddenly spread to the rest of his body. All at once, his heart was pounding so hard and fast it felt as if it'd break his ribs, impossible as that was. His blood ran hot through his veins as a flush of heat swamped him from head to toe, sweat beading on his brow. Every bone ached and throbbed, his joints in agony, muscles cramping in ways that didn't even seem possible. His breath came in shallow, rasping pants, vision swimming. He wanted so desperately to pass out, but now his brain was refusing to do that, though by all rights, pain should have sent him into shock already. A fragmented thought—_of course I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket_—darted across his mind.

His mind slowed, blurred, seemed to warp, and then snapped back into place. Energy unlike anything he'd ever felt, white-hot and blinding, shot through every fibre in his body as if he'd just been plugged into a nuclear reactor. He would have screamed in pain, had there been air in his lungs to scream with, writhing in the intolerable agony of it. The only equivalent to it was being dipped in acid, run over by a bus, and trampled by bulls all at the same time. He fell forward onto knees and forearms, digging his fingers into the rug, tears streaming down his face. Something inside of him shattered, reformed, fell together, was reborn entirely. A change had occurred, an irreversible and inexorable change in his very being. The pain grew even worse, doubling in ways he couldn't imagine. He prayed, desperately wanting to black out, but he remained fully conscious and vividly, agonizingly aware. It felt as if he was being pulled in two. He couldn't see, couldn't hear or feel or smell or even taste anything. And then…quickly as it'd come…it was over. All of a sudden, he felt powerful, lightened. All his pain and achiness had been washed away in a swell of visceral power.

Sherlock opened his eyes. Everything looked different. It was crystalline, sharp and clear. Things that'd before been nothing but blurry shadows were now defined in full colour. Scent returned next. He so nearly gagged at the overwhelming stench of slowly decomposing flesh, formaldehyde, latex, and a bouquet of chemicals struck his nose. Odd. The smell of his experiments had never bothered him before. He could smell bloody _everything._ Then his hearing returned, just as powerful as his other senses. The soft, rhythmic breathing of John in the other room, the rustle and creak of the bed as he shifted. Car engines rumbling past outside. The delicate, shuffling footsteps of Mrs. Hudson in 221A below. A low, persistent humming noise became audible, and for a moment, he turned his head this way and that trying to pinpoint it. Why did everything seem to be larger than he remembered it being before?

The low hum was still there, and suddenly his ears twitched. Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at the lamp in the corner: the noise he heard was the vibration of electricity within the filaments. For a moment, he preened over having puzzled out that mystery, but then he froze. His ears had twitched. Ears were not supposed to twitch. He started to rise but then faltered. He felt...different. Wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The knowledge made him want to growl—wait, why in the name of logic would he growl at anything for any reason? Still, he felt a prickle run along his backbone, and something behind him twitched and rustled in response. Sherlock went very, _very _still. Then, gradually, he turned his head to see what it was that was behind him, and he got a good look at himself in the process.

He screamed for John.

* * *

In the middle of the dark house, a man sat in front of the fireplace, a tumbler of whisky in one hand as he stared into the flames; slowly, he ran one fingertip around the rim of the glass. On the outside, nobody would believe that this man had any sort of problems, anything to trouble his mind or keep him awake at night. They would look at him and see a very wealthy, secure man enjoying a drink before bed. How very wrong they would be.

It'd happened. He'd felt it the moment that it struck midnight, a shift in the balance of the world, a tilt upon gravity. The world had adjusted. He sighed quietly, watching the dancing flames. Why had he not told the truth straight from the start? The moment that he saw the mark appear on his little brother, he should have told the truth, told him who they were, _what_ they were. It would've given him time to prepare, but it was too late now. Things were too far gone. The man shifted his gaze to the pale mark on his forearm, a birthmark that'd been there since he was born. It was a twisting, coiled mark that almost looked like a tattoo, a shade paler than the rest of his skin.

He should've known this would happen, though, should've realised it the moment that his little brother had befriended the caretaker. _I'll have to tell him,_ he decided resolutely. With a quiet sigh, Mycroft Holmes downed the last of his drink and stood up. Any normal person would be asleep at this hour; sleep was boring.

* * *

"John! _Jo-ooohnn!"_

Sitting up groggily, John Watson rubbed at his eyes with one hand and fumbled back the covers with his other hand. He could hear Sherlock's voice calling his name, but there was something different about it. It wasn't demanding or imperious, but actually thin and almost childish. Heaving out of bed, he shuffled out of the bedroom and into the living room. "What is it, Sherlock?" he mumbled, but got no reply. It was dimly lit, not a surprise, considering it was just past midnight. The violin lay untouched. The experiments were undisturbed. But there was a rumpled pile of fabric in the middle of the floor; John bent to look closer. They were Sherlock's clothes, ripped all into shreds, faint wisps of smoke rising from the cloth. The edges of the fibres were blackened and curled, almost like they'd been burned apart. Now he was starting to feel uneasy, his senses sharpening as his training kicked in, looking around for any sign of a threat. _Please, God,_ he thought to himself, _tell me that Moriarty hasn't gotten into flat._ "Where are you? Sherlock?" he called, noticing how quiet it'd gone in the flat.

The quiet reply came from the space behind the couch, soothing his rising tension before it became full-blown fear. "John…there's something very wrong with me," said Sherlock in that same small, near-childish voice that he'd used before. It was almost disconcerting. John took a step towards the couch. "No! Don't—don't come any nearer, please."

He withdrew his foot, thrown. "What's wrong? Why do you think something's wrong with you?" he asked in his soothing doctor's voice. He knew that something had to be wrong because Sherlock was never this pathetic-sounding, never sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Hell, he wouldn't have even thought Sherlock was capable of tears. It seemed too _human, _and there were times Sherlock seemed to be the furthest thing from human.

He heard a faint rustle of movement and the unexpected _clack-clack_ of what sounded like claws on the hardwood floors. It sounded like an animal. John tensed slightly, unsure and wary, and he cast a fast glance around for anything that might be construed as a weapon. With small, shuffling footsteps, the animal lingering behind the couch stepped into his line of vision. At first, what emerged from behind the couch appeared to be no more than a large exotic lizard. But its plated underbelly and bat-wings gave away its true nature—a dragon. John had seen them before in the picture books he read as a child with Harry, huge fire breathing creatures with wingspans to cover whole villages. This one was a little bigger than a housecat and entirely black, looking like it'd been carved of the night sky with the stars pulled out. The little dragon sat down on its haunches, tail twitching back and forth, frilled ears lying almost flat against its neck. It looked up at him with incredible intelligence, then its little mouth opened wide, and it said in Sherlock's plaintive voice, "I've been turned into a _lizard!"_


	2. Quagmires

**A/N: I'm so stoked that people are already following my story! Thank you all for the reviews, favourites, and follows. Hopefully I will be able to update a new chapter every Tuesday or Wednesday. Maybe on a Thursday if I have a long night ;) And if you don't hear from me in a while, have no fear. Chances are my Primeval fandom has taken me hostage and demanded I pay more attention to them.**

* * *

"Oh…my God," he whispered softly, staring at the tiny dragon. "Sherlock? Is that you?"

"Yes, and I'm a bloody lizard! What's happening?" wailed the dragon, sniffling.

John scrubbed at his eyes with both hands, but when he opened his lashes again, the dragon was still there, looking small and quite miserable. Then he knelt down and held out both arms in a come-here gesture. The dragon-Sherlock walked towards him, tottering unsteadily on four legs. He carefully picked up the reptile, feeling the smooth, cool scales under his hands, and he knew it was real. It wasn't some bizarre hallucination or the strangest dream that ever existed. It was real, and it was happening. A brief, hot surge of fear and panic bubbled up inside him. _This was bloody real._ His flatmate had been turned into a _dragon._ For a brief, fleeting second, he almost wished that Moriarty really had broken into the flat. That might have been somewhat easier to stomach than _this._

"Oh, John, what shall we do now? I—I'm a _lizard!"_ dragon-Sherlock cried, pressing himself against the doctor's lap.

The miserable tone drew John from his thoughts. Automatically, he began to stroke the creature's scaled back in silent comfort. The row of spikes running down Sherlock's backbone from the base of his skull to the tip of his tail were still soft, bending under his hand. "There now, it'll be alright. We'll figure this out together; we always figure it out together, don't we?" he asked in his soothing doctor's voice, even though he was seriously starting to question his own sanity on the inside, and the dragon nodded. "It'll be fine, you'll see. And you're not a lizard, either. You're a dragon," he corrected.

"A—a _what?"_

"You don't know what a dragon is?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"John…"

"Yes, yes, the hard drive," he muttered. Sherlock didn't even know how many bloody planets there were; how could he possibly be expected to know what a dragon was? Holding the consulting detective in one arm, he stood and went over to the laptop. Two clicks later, he'd pulled up a website entirely about dragons, including a full-colour illustration of a firedrake swooping down on a village, flame exploding from its open jaws. Sherlock crawled off John's lap onto the desk, rapidly reading the information across the screen, and his little reptilian face actually showed surprise. "See, I told you. Not a lizard."

"I can see that for myself, thank you," replied Sherlock. Apparently, the initial shock had worn off, and he was rapidly returning to his cool, disdainful self. "How interesting. The question still remains as to _how_ I came to be this way."

John rested one elbow on the desk, chin in his palm, and stared at the reptilian creature. "Maybe we ought to skip the _how_ and the _why_ and go straight to the _fix,"_ he suggested, proud that his voice didn't tremble or shake at all. Sherlock gave him a glare for his trouble, though his eyes were no longer that pale, near colourless blue that would sometimes change shades depending upon his mood. Now they were the colour of molten gold, with vertical slit pupils much like a cat's, adjusting to every slight change in the light. If anything, the change only made that gaze seem all the more piercing and soul-searching. Still, John had been receiving that glare for a good long time now, and he stared right back stubbornly. His gaze was drawn away from Sherlock's eyes to the rest of his new body, curious now that the shock had begun to wear off. Four legs, each ending in a small hand-like paw with four fingers and an opposable thumb. Plated underbelly. The rest of his scales were small and diamond-shaped, forming a close-fitting armour. Two wings much like a bat with a small hooked thumb claw and four long finger bones with thin membranous skin stretched between them. Two short horns, curved and ebony-black, between almost comically-large frilled ears. The dragon's scales weren't entirely black, either. Sparks and whorls of silvery-blue came and went depending upon how the light struck the scales, and the same pale colour edged both wings and tipped his claws and horns. All in all, the dragon version of Sherlock was almost beautiful to look upon. "Maybe we ought to call Mycroft," he suggested suddenly, though he had no idea where the idea came from in the first place.

The spines along Sherlock's backbone stood upright, quivering slightly like a cat raising its hackles. "Don't you _dare,"_ Sherlock hissed quietly. "I'll not have my unsavoury brother know that I have somehow been transformed into a—a dragon. He would never let me live it down that I was reduced to something so pitifully small and useless."

With an exasperated roll of the eyes, John shook his head. "Sherlock, can't you two put aside your ridiculous sibling rivalry? I mean, this is serious."

"No." The tiny creature looked positively resolute, but then something in the detective-turned-dragon seemed to crumble, and he shrank in on himself, instantly appearing even smaller than he was. "Oh, John, what are we going to _do?_ I don't want to be a lizard _or_ a dragon," said the tiny consulting detective, looking up at him with mournful golden eyes. He crawled closer to him, nuzzling nearer to the doctor's body for warmth; tiny claws pricked his skin through the jumper.

John put both arms around the warm little creature, slightly taken aback by the sudden contact. Sherlock was never big on hugging, so this was an odd experience. Then again, the entire night was an odd experience. "I—I dunno, Sherlock. We'll figure it out together, I promise. We're Watson and Holmes. We can solve anything," he said, even though he wasn't quite as sure as he sounded. What _were_ they going to do? "C'mon, let's get back to sleep. We can work on this in the morning." As he stood up, dragon-Sherlock clung tight to his shoulder, coiling his tail around the doctor's neck as he walked back to the bedroom.

* * *

"We'll need to go to the morgue," announced Sherlock the next morning.

John paused, glancing over his shoulder at the small reptile. "Maybe you haven't noticed, Sherlock, but you aren't exactly in any condition to go anywhere at the moment," he said as he fixed them both a cuppa tea. Part of him was still reeling. When he woke up in the morning, he actually hoped that it'd been some kind of strange, twisted dream, but of course not. The detective-turned-dragon was still scaly and winged, shuffling about downstairs and bemoaning the fact he was now too small to play his violin. _That_ part, John didn't actually mind—no more waking up to violin at three in the morning. But now they were faced with another problem. Sooner or later, Lestrade would find them a case, and they could only come up with so many excuses before the Yard's finest realised something wasn't right. Sherlock couldn't leave the flat like this, of course, but God knew there was no way he would be able to stay locked up very long.

He placed the mug in front of the dragon, and Sherlock grasped the rim of the ceramic with tiny claws that looked rather like they were etched of diamond, a forked tongue flickering out to lap up the tea. "Well, we'll have to go now rather than later. If you expect me to stay in the flat for an extended period of time, I am going to need fresh body parts for my experiments. You know I cannot stand to be bored, John," he added, looking up at the man with gold eyes.

Leaning back in his chair, the doctor blew out a long, slow sigh. "All right. Fine," he relinquished at last and rubbed one hand over his forehead. This was going to be a very long week.

"Good. We'll leave as soon as we've finished breakfast," said Sherlock.

John's eyes snapped open. "'We'? There is no 'we'. I'll go to the morgue, you'll stay here."

"Unacceptable. You have not the foggiest idea what I will want."

"Then make a list."

"How can I? I have not seen what Molly has to offer, therefore I cannot possibly know what I will need. Honestly, John," the dragon scoffed, giving him that _why are you so abysmally stupid?_ look that even his new reptilian face had mastery of.

"Sherlock, you can't exactly go walking into the morgue like this. People will _see_ you. So unless turning invisible is one of your new dragon superpowers, it's out of the question."

That got a reaction out of his companion. His frilled ears twitched slightly, head cocked to the side. "Hm. I wonder if I would have any new superhuman capabilities whilst in this form. Curious thought," he murmured.

John nodded. "Right. Well, you stay here and work on that, I'll head down to the morgue."

"No."

_Damn, so close._ "Then what do you suggest?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, tapping his claws against the edge of the mug as he contemplated their new situation. Then, without warning, he was in motion, leaping off the table and streaking along the floor towards his room; John blinked in surprise. For such a small creature, those little legs could move when they wanted to. A moment later, Sherlock reemerged from his room, dragging with him an empty knapsack by the strap. "You cannot be serious," John said quietly.

"Extremely. You'll find that I am quite conveniently travel-sized," replied Sherlock, voice slightly muffled. He dropped the knapsack on the floor, then proceeded to crawl up the doctor's leg to perch on his shoulder, sharp claws just pricking his skin through his jumper. "It is sufficiently sized so that I may fit inside as well as the new materials I'll need. And no-one can see me, either. Satisfied?"

John rubbed his forehead again. "I'd be satisfied if you were a tall lanky git instead of a small scaly one," he shot back; the dragon hissed softly. He bent down and picked up the knapsack. For a moment, he held the rumpled material in his hands, weighing the risks in his mind, and then a long sigh escaped him. He unzipped the knapsack. "Fine. In with you. Let's get this over with."

* * *

Mycroft paced in his study. He was not the pacing sort of man, but right now, he was so full up of energy that if he didn't find some way to burn it away, he would end up doing something stupid and drastic.

It was worse than he originally thought. Usually, when the shift occurred, it came in the form of a gift or an ability found only in dragonkind—some could breathe fire, others could weave magic, and a rare handful could even call forth certain traits like claws or a tail. But of course, Mycroft could always count on his younger brother to bypass the norm in tremendous leaps and bounds. Which he had done in a most stupendous fashion. Not once, in all the hundreds of years, was there any recollection of a fledgling that had been able to fully reclaim their dragon form. It was supposedly impossible. The spell that had changed them was permanent and irreversible. Or so he thought. Now he wasn't so sure, and if there was one thing that Mycroft Holmes despised most of all, it was being unsure. It was an uncomfortable, unpleasant, undesirable sensation that made him feel as if he were standing upon a trapdoor and at any moment, his belief could drop away from beneath his feet. His only consolation was that Sherlock had not transformed into an adult form. Dragons were small when they were Hatchlings, but they grew to tremendous size in adulthood. Princess Luna was barely out of her adolescent years, and she had been larger than an African bull elephant. For now, at least, Sherlock was caught in the form of a Hatchling, but it was temporary at best—they grew fast.

"Would you _sit down?_ You're starting to give me motion sickness."

The elder Holmes resisted the urge to show his teeth at Anthea; he had his dignity after all, and he would not be cowed by his baser instincts. Still, nothing could be done about the low rumble that left his throat.

The caretaker arched one eyebrow at him as she perched on the edge of his desk. It was made of the finest hardwood and probably cost more than most people's car. Anthea, however, sat upon it as if it were no more than a chair, absently swinging one foot. She had bought new heels, no doubt because she had a date later on with the annoying young man that she bought coffee from every morning because it was the only shop that actually knew how to make Mycroft's order. Right now, she held an apple in one hand and was using an antique letter opener to peel it. "Don't you growl at me, lizard-boy, it was your decision not to tell Sherlock. This quagmire you find your feet sunk in is one of your own doing," she said, then paused. "Hm. I like that word: _quagmire._ I so rarely have an opportunity to use it in a sentence."

Mycroft almost wanted to growl again at her flippant tone, but she was right. The situation was now trapped in was of his own doing. If he had listened to Mummy and told Sherlock of their heritage, things might have turned out very differently. But he had been young and foolish then, so full of that pesky sentiment that he decided against his mother's advice. Now, of course, he was faced with a situation he would rather not ever be in, a problem that was supposedly impossible. Irritation flared through him, hot and potent, and he hastily shoved it back down. It was emotions that had gotten him into this predicament in the first place. He would not allow the damned things to make it any worse. Now he all had to do was explain to his brother and the caretaker who and _what_ they were, find out what had caused Sherlock's transformation in the first place, and discover a way to return him to a human form.

What a bloody _quagmire._

* * *

**A/N: sort of a filler until I finish the next chapter. Spoilers—Molly the Pathologist, meet Sherlock the Dragon.**


	3. Faith and Acceptance

John did not like this one little bit. He didn't know why, but he felt like he was back in the warzone, every nerve prickling and aware, senses expanded to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. It was an unpleasant feeling he didn't like to have. Then again, he was walking around with a dragon in a knapsack on his back and was on his way to the morgue to collect body parts. Who wouldn't feel uncomfortable in such a situation. True to his word, though, Sherlock was on his very best behavior, mainly because John refused to take a step outside of the flat until he promised so. The detective was moving as little as possible, making no noise, and wasn't throwing out scathing deductions at everyone he saw. The restraint it took to keep such things contained, however, was surely taxing what little self-control the young Holmes had. John adjusted his grip on the straps of the knapsack and hurried his step. He just wanted to get to the morgue, get whatever the hell it was that Sherlock needed, and get back to 221B as fast as humanly possible, before someone miraculously noticed that his knapsack was moving.

"Morning, Molly," he greeted as he pushed open the doors of the morgue.

The pathologist glanced up at him and offered a small, friendly smile. "Morning, John." Her gaze flickered to the door, noticing the lack of a certain someone. "Where's Sherlock? Did he run off like a maniac and leave you behind again?" she asked with a teasing smile.

Lying to Molly wasn't an easy thing to do. She was one of the few true friends John could boast of, and he often came down to the morgue to vent his frustrations when Sherlock became particularly insufferable because she understood as well as he did how very maddening the consulting detective could become. Still, he wouldn't push her understanding so far as to let her see the scaly little bugger curled up in the knapsack he carried. "For once, no. He's back at the flat, brooding over Moriarty," John answered; the lie tasted bitter on his tongue. "He sent me down for some new body parts for his experiments."

Molly paused in her rearranging of files, turned, and fixed the doctor with a look that wasn't all too dissimilar from Sherlock's. For a split second, John feared that she'd seen through his lies, but then a tiny grin flitted across her face. "So he's made you into an errand boy now?" she asked, then chortled. "Glad I'm not the only one he treats like his own personal serf."

"Tell me about it. Normally I'd have told him to stuff it, but since it's my day off, I figured that it'd be better to get out than sit around in the flat listening to him mutter to himself." There was a sharp bite of pain in the back of his shoulder; the dragon was listening intently to their conversation, and displeased with the way he was being spoken of, he'd dug his claws into John's back. The doctor gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to drop the knapsack on the floor out of spite. "So, what do you have that could be of use? I'm not sure what exactly he wants, and you know more about this..." He made a gesture towards the cadaver currently on the autopsy table. "...than I do. Or at least, more about what he'd like."

Molly was all too happy to oblige, showing him a new crop of body parts that no longer had use in the morgue, free for the taking. John began wondering how Sherlock intended to let him know which he'd need, but then he felt a light tapping on his back, slightly muffled by the layers of fabric—Morse code. _Genius, Sherlock._ Under the guidance of the silent instruction from his miniature passenger, John picked out several of the various organs, all of them preserved in their own separate containers, and he tucked them all into the knapsack, careful to keep it out of Molly's view so she wouldn't catch sight of the tiny dragon's luminous eyes or scaly form. She was entirely unaware, fully believing that there was nothing at all unusual about their interaction. He was beginning to think that maybe they could pull this off without any trouble at all. It was so nearly perfect.

Nearly.

As he began to bid Molly goodbye, the doors of the morgue swung open, and in came Detective Inspector Lestrade, a scowl set firmly on his face. "Sherlock, I—oh, John, it's you. I thought that Holmes was down here again," Lestrade muttered. "Where is the lanky git anyways? Run off without you again?"

Again, the doctor felt the claws bite into his back. _Well, if you didn't want people to call you a git, maybe you shouldn't frequently act like one,_ John thought vindictively, wondering if maybe the little dragon could hear thoughts as well. "He's back at the flat obsessing over Moriarty. I'm on a supply run," he answered, gesturing to the knapsack on his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"We've got a brand-new case that has 'Sherlock' written all over it. I tried texting him earlier, but he didn't answer me. I figured he was just ignoring me, so I was coming down here to talk to him," the inspector replied. "Where is he?"

"Home, milling about in his mind palace," John explained. "He might have turned off his mobile. Or he might be abusing his violin again so he didn't hear it. He can get a little...tetchy when he has nothing to do."

Lestrade shook his head, grumbling something under his breath. All three people in the morgue jumped slightly at the loud, unmistakable sound of gunfire from somewhere in the hospital, closely followed by people screaming. "The blood hell...?" Lestrade drew his gun and stuck his head out of the morgue cautiously. "John, have you got—?" The inspector closed his mouth as he turned and saw the doctor tensed and aware, holding his pistol in a practiced stance. A tiny grin quirked his mouth. Had it been anybody else, Lestrade would have been horrified to see a civilian walking around with a concealed firearm, but there were exceptions to every rule and John running through London after criminals on a daily basis was certainly an exception. "'Course you do. C'mon, let's see what the hell's going on out there."

"Molly, once we leave, I want you to lock the door behind us and don't open it unless it's us," John instructed; the pathologist nodded hastily. The two men left the morgue and headed down the hallway towards the sounds of gunfire. She quickly jumped up and locked the doors as they swung closed, watching out the small window as doctor and inspector disappeared around a corner. She would never understand how they would be so brave as to move _towards_ the screaming instead of running away like any other sane person. Moving away from the door, she took a deep breath to calm her nerves and walked back towards the counter where her latest case file waited. She had to work on something, otherwise she'd worry about John and Lestrade until she went utterly crackers from anxiety. As she turned, her elbow caught on John's knapsack—he'd set it down the moment he heard shots—and sent it to the floor, all its contents spilling out.

* * *

Sherlock did not like being carried around in a knapsack. At first, it had certainly seemed like a brilliant idea, but he had entirely neglected to consider how uncomfortable it would be, curled up in a dark, cramped space, unable to see anything other than the rough fabric in front of his nose, being jostled about as John walked, and having to keep utterly, totally, _maddeningly_ silent. He had no problem with not speaking; sometimes he could go days without uttering a word when he was thinking. But being _forbidden_ to speak...that was infuriating beyond reason. So he had to keep as still as possible inside his little prison, clenching his jaw tightly and mentally naming each bone in the human body in alphabetical order to keep himself from clawing his way out of the knapsack. It seemed that being in this new form of his also came with a new set of instincts, one that he was not at all used to. He had never in his life been claustrophobic before, but now, he felt anxious when he did not have a view of the sky above him or room enough to fully stretch his _wings._ It felt odd, giving names to body parts he'd never had before. When the cabbie that brough them to St. Bart's was rude for no apparent reason other than to be impolite, he had to resist the urge to leap at the man with claws out, wanting to rip the sod's tongue out for daring to mistreat his blogger.

Now he was sitting in the knapsack besides his fresh crop of body parts, waiting for John to return, and being so still and quiet was wearing on his very last nerve. He heard the gunshots and screaming—in fact, he'd probably heard them better than anyone else did due to his new, incredibly sensitve hearing—and he knew that it was only logical that John leave behind the unneccessary burden of the knapsack. That didnt mean he had to like it. Sherlock barely bit his tongue on a sigh of boredom and began to mentally plan which experiments could be done with these new parts, going as far into detail as possible to pass the time.

Something hit the knapsack—_a glancing blow, accidental instead of intentional. Molly gets clumsy whenever she's anxious_—and he suddenly found himself falling. There was an impact that had him breathless, then glaring lights hit his eyes, temporarily blinding him as he rolled across a cold tiled floor. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lights, he quickly took stock. "No broken bones or contusions anywhere, lack of blood and severe pains. Possible bruise on the left hip, unimportant, not enough to hinder movement," he said to himself. Sherlock went rigid when his mind finally became aware of the fact that he was no longer in his prison and that Molly was standing less than two feet from him, her eyes wide as she stared at him. "Oh, bollocks," he muttered quietly. He backed away from her quickly, the spines on his back lifting as a low hiss spat from between his bared teeth. Those new instincts of his were flaring up high, and he was too full of his own panic to try and resist them. He had been seen. _Escape. Now. Can't: doors to the morgue—locked, windows—none, alternate routes for escape—nonexistant. Trapped. Bollocks._ Sherlock edged further away from Molly without taking his eyes off her, every muscle in him tensed and hyperaware. His wings unfurled, spreading out in an attempt to make himself seem larger than he truly was. He had no wish to hurt her, but right now, he was feeling a hot, unfamiliar flutter of panic in his chest. If he was caught, he could already imagine what would happen to him. Needles. Cages. Experiments. The word didn't hold the usual sweet taste it did when he would be the test subject instead of the observer.

Molly, however, hadn't moved yet. She was still staring with wide eyes, mouth open slightly. He watched her every movement, waiting for her to go for the scalpel on the counter beside her elbow, seize a weapon. But she didn't. Curious. Instead, there was a look of awe on her face, of wonder and disbelief. Not horror. Not fear. Slowly, she reached out and placed the files she held on the counter nearest to her. He bristled slightly, seeing how close her hands came to the tray of dissecting tools, but she didn't so much as glance at them. Her eyes remained on him. She sank down to her knees on the floor, watching him just as closely as he watched her. "Sherlock?" she whispered quietly.

The sound of his name leaving her lips made him blink in surprise, his snarl dissipating from shock. In that brief moment when his animal instincts were too surprised to take over his reasoning, he hastily began his observations. _No sign of fear,_ he observed, looking over her closely. _Made no move for a weapon, suggesting she believes I am not a threat to her. Hands are steady, heart rate is normal, breathing is regular. She is not afraid,_ he concluded. The spines on his back lay flat, and he furled his wings in.

"Sherlock, is that you? I heard you speak," Molly said quietly, gazing at him. "You don't have to be scared. I won't hurt you."

Despite everything that told him she was still dangerous, a possible threat, he believed her. The impulse to flee gone, he began to creep towards her, moving slowly and cautiously. His reflexes were much better than hers, and he had no doubt that if she moved to attack suddenly, he would be able to escape. Still, he was silently hoping that she wouldn't do such a thing. The realisation struck him with as much force as a physical blow—Molly's opinion of him _mattered_ to him, just as much as John's did. He would be rather distraught if she rejected him. As he came closer to her, she moved. Instantly, he went rigid, shrinking back out of instinct, but she wasn't trying to hurt him. She had opened her arms towards him, an invitation. Sherlock crawled into her lap, still tightly wound and wary. But then all the tension melted out of his body as she wrapped both arms around him, enveloping him in warmth and the soft scent of herself.

Molly ran one hand down his back in a stroking motion, much like John did, and he was slightly ashamed of how he arched towards her touch eagerly. The spines on his back were peculiarly sensitive; it felt delightful when she ran her hand over them like that. His pathologist got to her feet, cradling him in her arms as if he was her cat, Toby; a low purr escaped his throat as her fingers lightly scratched behind his ears. Sherlock was ashamed of how pathetic he sounded, but right now, he didn't much care. This was even better than snuggling with John; his blogger was warm, no doubt, but made of hard muscle. She was soft and incredibly comfortable. "Oh, Sherlock," Molly said quietly, her warm breath just brushing the tops of his ears. "What have you gotten yourself into now?" she mused.

"You are not afraid of me?" he asked softly, peering up at her face.

"Of course not. Why should I be? You're still Sherlock." Her hands felt soft as she stroked his back, lightly running one fingertip along the row of spines down his backbone. "What happened to you?" she asked.

"That...is quite an excellent question," he said, "and one that I do not have the answer to at present."

She shook her head slightly. "My God, Sherlock, I can always count on you to get yourself into the most unusual bloody situations I have ever heard of."

Disbelief washed through him as he looked up at her. "How can you be so calm?" he queried. "Most people would have panicked at the sight of me, attempted to kill me, or called the authorities." _So why didn't you?_ was the unspoken question he was trying to ask.

Molly sat down on one of the stools, holding him in her lap. "Sherlock, in the four years that I have known you, your apparent magnetism for all things strange and unusual has lifted my tolerance level an enormous amount. And even if you think it's a bunch of superstitious nonsense, I _do_ believe in a higher power. I might not call it God, but that doesn't mean I have no faith," she murmured. Her gaze was steady and unblinking as she looked down into his eyes, full of conviction. Despite everything that'd transcribed in the past several minutes, she was still, somehow, miraculously calm. "So I'll have to believe that this has something to do with that power, no matter how…unbelievable it may be. Besides, it's _you._ I ought to be used to you being the strangest man I've ever met in all of my life," she added with a tiny grin.

He wasn't sure what it was about her—maybe her willing acceptance of his new form or her straightforward answer or just her familiarity—but he felt as if he could trust this woman with everything that John made him promise to keep a secret. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one that he only ever felt around the doctor himself. It was like a blanket, almost, wrapping him up in a sensation of warmth and relaxation and trust. Sherlock curled himself closer to her warmth and told her everything that'd happened since yesterday, from the blinding pain he felt to waking up with wings and a tail, to his and John's plan to come to the morgue. Throughout it all, Molly was decidedly quiet, stroking his back and listening intently. When he finished speaking, he looked up at her face for some sort of reaction; there was a look of thoughtfulness on her face, similar to his whenever he was thinking deeply about a new case.

"So, do you know what caused this? Will you ever be able to change back?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied reluctantly. Oh, how he hated those three words, hated speaking them aloud, hated hearing himself say them. "I've been working on several theories, but all of them seem quite impossible."

Molly looked down and fixed him with a decidedly amused look, a smile pulling at her lips. "Sherlock. You've been turned into a dragon as big as my cat. The term 'impossible' no longer applies to our situation," she said, and he could tell by the note of her voice she was going to some effort not to laugh at him.

If he was human, he might have blushed in chagrin. Instead, his ears lay back, flat against his skull. Molly giggled, recognising his embarrassment. They both looked up as there was a sharp knock on the doors of the morgue. "Molly, it's John. You can let me in, it's all right," called the doctor's voice.

"Is Lestrade with you?" Molly asked as she stood up.

"No, he's on his way back to the Yard. He arrested the shooter. It was some bloke, had a mental breakdown because his wife died a few days ago, so apparently he decided that he'd come back and shoot every doctor he saw," John replied, and they could both hear the slight exasperation in his voice.

The pathologist nodded, then lifted Sherlock up and lightly placed him on her shoulder. He curled his tail around the back of her neck for balance, careful not to accidentally dig his claws into her shoulder. Molly stood up, walked across the morgue, and unlocked the doors, pulling them open. John stood just on the other side patiently, and the doctor's face drained of colour when he saw the dragon crouched on her shoulder, wide eyes flicking from Sherlock to her face. Molly folded her arms across her chest. "I do believe that you have some explaining to do, John Watson," she informed.

* * *

**A/N: two chapters in one week! I am on a roll! Again, I want to thank everyone that's reviewed the story so far, and major thanks to the people that have favourited/followed it as well. So, Molly knows about Sherlock the Dragon, and all things considered, she handled it pretty well. I know that some people might think it's weird, how calmly John and Molly took all this transformation thing in stride, but to me, Molly always seemed like she's one of those people that does actually believe in cosmic forces and otherworldly power, even if she's really good at hiding it. After dealing with Sherlock for so long, I would say that her bar for the weird and unexplainable has been raised a fair deal, too. And John? Hell, he's been in a war. It takes a lot to freak him out. I wonder if the next person to find out is quite so calm (insert evil smile here).**

**Next chapter—Mycroft reveals the truth to Sherlock, someone else discovers the detective-turned-dragon without keeping their cool as well as John and Molly, and Sherlock decides to try flying lessons.**


	4. Flying and Secrets

"Three point two-five centimetres," announced Molly as she scribbled the number down in her notes. _(Quick conversion: 3.25 cm = 1.28 in)_

Sherlock folded his wings in with a sharp snap, snorting quietly. In the two weeks since Molly found out about him, he had grown. A whole bloody lot. The rate of growth was phenomenal, and his pathologist came by daily to take his measurements, marking them all down in a small notebook where she made her notes on him, like his wingspan, his weight, his length and height. The most alarming thing to him, though, was how quickly he was growing. In thirteen days, he had gone from the approximate size of a housecat to being roughly the size of a small Shetland pony. He had no problem doing the maths himself, and he knew that if he continued growing this way, he would soon be too large to live in the flat anymore…but where in the world would he go then? There was no place in London for a dragon. He would be unable to solve cases for Lestrade, wouldn't be able to do his experiments or play his violin. He would be unable to see John and Molly. The idea of being cut off from London, from the city and people that were so familiar, was a dreadful one.

As if somehow reading his thoughts, Molly lifted a hand to lightly stroke his head, scratching the tender spots behind his ears and under his jaw. "It'll be all right, Sherlock. We'll figure this out together." She gently patted his neck and walked to the kitchen to prepare her lunch.

Sherlock lowered his head with a soft grunt, using one sharp talon to draw his plate over. His appetite had changed a great deal, the biggest change being that he was constantly hungry and, unlike his human hunger, it could not be ignored. Of course, constant calorie intake was necessary to provide energy for his continuous growth. Meat was particularly appetizing, but he found chicken livers to be a certain delicacy. He speared a small chunk of the meat on one talon and blew on it. According to the mythology, all dragons were capable of breathing fire, sometimes enough to engulf an entire town in a single breath. He had yet to accomplish flame, but perhaps it was something only achieved in adulthood. His breath was still hot, though, hot enough to char meat before he ate it—he would not eat it raw.

Molly returned to the room, automatically running a hand along his back as she passed him. "I think I should leave 221B," he announced suddenly, and she almost choked on the bite of sandwich in her mouth.

When she could speak again, her voice had gone shrill. "Are you bloody _crackers?"_ she demanded. "Sherlock, where in the hell would you go?"

He twitched his tail. "I know of several places in the city that go undisturbed for months on end, out of the way and unnoticeable. They are also noticeably larger than the flat," he replied in a slightly guarded tone; from the way her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips turned down, he deduced she knew he was speaking of former drug dens he'd inhabited. A quiet sigh escaped him. "You needn't worry, Dr. Hooper. Given the rapid state of my metabolism at this point, I doubt drugs would remain in my system long enough to take effect, and I have extreme doubt that anyone will sell to me like this." He rustled his wings as proof. "Besides, no needle would get through my scales, and I have no idea how heroin would effect my new body."

She relaxed slightly, her minute frown disappearing, and he felt unexpectedly touched at her concern for him. "Why do you want to leave?" she asked, recovering from her shock.

"The risk of discovery grows larger every day that I am here. _I_ grow larger every day I am here. Soon I will be too large to conceal in the flat, and eventually, someone will walk in here and see me. I am...conspicuous," he replied, tapping his claws against the edge of the plate and casting a glance around the flat. Already, he'd knocked over a lamp and tipped over the end table twice because he forgot exactly how long his tail was. It was difficult to walk on the floor without scratching the floorboards with his talons, and they consistently snagged in the material of the rug. With every day he grew larger, the flat seemed smaller, both literally and figuratively. The animal part of his brain did not like being confined, being cut off from the sky with no way to escape. He feared that if he didn't get out of here soon, he would end up going mad. In a former drug den, he would have a whole building to move about in, and he would have no fear of being accidentally discovered by his landlady. He'd only have to worry about other addicts and homeless squatters, but it would be fairly easy to use his new form to terrify their drug-addled minds. And if they spread rumours about him...well, who would believe a tweaker that claimed to have seen a monster in a dark house?

Molly was quiet as she pondered this, lightly tapping her pen against her opposite hand thoughtfully. "Hm. I suppose that you're right. We'll find a place for you to go, but we wait until John gets home," she said firmly.

Sherlock stretched out with a low growl of impatience. John would not be home for hours yet. Several long, confined, _boring_ hours. And in approximately twenty-three minutes, his pathologist's lunch break would end and she would return to St. Bart's, leaving him alone. Once-upon-a-time, he had revelled in being alone, not having to put up with the consistent stupidity of an endless parade of idiotic, simple-minded, _dull_ people; he had been able to talk to his skull and be content with not seeing another human being sometimes for weeks on end. But now, he actually got lonely when John worked a double shift or stayed out with his various girlfriends. _Ugh, I've gone soft,_ he thought.

He was removed from his thoughts as Molly rubbed behind his ears with her fingertips. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll head back to Bart's, and when John gets off work, we'll talk more about moving you," she said. She hesitated for a moment, then bent and pressed a kiss to the top of his head before she grabbed her bag and left the flat, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

"This is utter madness," John said quietly as they drove Molly's little car towards the more unsavoury parts of London. He hadn't wanted to risk it, but he couldn't deny that keeping the rapidly-growing dragon in 221B was not going to work for much longer. The consulting detective was already the size of a small pony, and that was only in the course of two weeks. It would have to be done eventually, he just didn't really want it to be done quite so soon.

"A left here, John," came a low rumble from the backseat, and the doctor felt hot breath stir his hair. Sherlock was curled up tight in the back, covered up by a quilt, and murmuring directions as they drove. "And do stop fretting so much. I'll be fine here. now you don't have to worry about Mrs. Hudson walking in on me."

That should've comforted him, should've soothed his jangled nerves, but John would have much rather had their sweet, kind, understanding landlady discover the dragon instead of an unpredictable, irritable, more-than-likely armed junkie in search of a fix. The doctor was feeling more and more anxious the further they went into the slums. It wasn't just because he was leaving Sherlock in a drug den—though that was a huge issue—it was also he felt as if he was abandoning his friend in this godforsaken place, leaving him alone. His worry was a consistent tension, a spring being wound tighter and tighter beneath his breastbone. Then he glanced back at Sherlock; at least the dragon wasn't out his defences with his claws and fangs and armour plating of scales. "You're sure you'll be all right out here?"

_"Yes,_ John, as I have said many times already. God, you fret worse than Mummy does."

Molly snorted quietly, biting her lip hard to stop herself from laughing aloud; John's ears turned bright pink as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Hot breath brushed his arm. "There it is, at the corner," muttered Sherlock.

John glanced towards the building and grimaced. It was worse than he'd thought, a decrepit, rundown structure with windows boarded over and walls plastered with graffiti. It looked more like it ought to be condemned, not inhabited. Then again, it _was_ a drug den, and drug dealers and addicts weren't exactly concerned about the structural soundness of their lodgings. He pulled up to the kerb and climbed out of the car. "Let's get you inside then," he ground out reluctantly.

* * *

Lestrade always felt like he ought to take a shower when he left the slums of Greater London. It was an unsanitary place, both physically and morally, and it lingered on his skin, making him feel as if bugs were crawling across him, which is why he so hated to respond to calls out here. Donovan was already headed back to NSY with their arrest in the back of her car—her car because his had just been reupholstered, and he was not about to have a junkie on a bender puke all over his new seats—and he was ready to go back to the office and maybe catch a shower in the locker rooms. He walked back towards his car, fishing in his pocket for the keys when a bizarre sight gave him pause. Molly's car was driving past. He knew it was Molly's car because he could see her sitting in the passenger's seat, and unless he was mistaken, it was John driving. Why in the name of God would they be in this hotbed of drugs, prostitution, and violence?

_Oh, Jesus, tell me Sherlock hasn't snapped and gone on a bloody heroin binge,_ he thought, his stomach knotting in dread. He hadn't seen scarf or curl of the self-proclaimed sociopath in over two weeks, which was odd but not entirely unheard of, but seeing those two driving through the hellhole instantly caused his worry to ratchet up several notches. He texted Donovan, let her know he was going to be a little late, then got in his car and started following after Molly's car before he lost sight of them. As he followed at a careful distance, he began to mentally go over his last encounters with Sherlock in his head, searching for any sign that maybe the younger man had finally gone off the deep end. He hadn't been any more acerbic than usual, launching normal insults with Donovan and Anderson, simply making everyone around him look like an idiot with his cool genius. But Sherlock was a master of hiding things. Perhaps there was more going on. "I swear to God, if you've gone on the needle again, I'll let Donovan strip-search you as punishment and Anderson can take pictures," he growled quietly as turned the corner. The pathologist's car had come to a stop in front of a well-known drug den. It hadn't seen a lot of activity since a successful sting ended with fourteen people being arrested, but there was still a chance someone would be so stupid as to start up business in there again. He parked at the kerb just in time to see the flowery skirt of Molly's dress disappear into the building's doorway, her bright attire swallowed by the gloom inside.

He hastily unfastened his seatbelt, climbed out of the car, and made sure the doors were locked before heading after them. Lestrade rested one hand on his gun holster, carefully flicking the safety off as he edged into the drug den. The smell of stale air, mildew, dust, and other things he'd not consider reached his nose. Broken pieces of furniture were piled in the corners, a layer of dust covered everything in sight, and cockroaches and a rat the size of a small dog scurried here and there. Not a whole lot of light made it through the boarded windows, narrow streamers of sunlight barely putting a dent in the gloom. He could see John and Molly, though, because they looked almost obscenely _clean,_ spots of colour against the dim backdrop. And he saw something...else. He didn't know what it was, but it was huge, the size of a horse and somewhat reptilian. It was difficult to see clearly, but he got the impression of a long tail, glowing yellow eyes, and an oddly angular, misshapen body. And teeth. He could see lots of teeth, gleaming in the dim light. The..._thing_ lurched towards the shapes of the two doctors; those teeth glistened, each one long as a knife blade and just as sharp.

"Oi, get away from them!" he shouted, raising his gun and opening fire.

* * *

Sherlock remembered this place. He had memories of sprawling out in a corner, eyes half-closed as the heroin worked its way through his system and helped to slow his feverish, whirling mind. He didn't remember it smelling quite so horribly though. It took all his will not to gag at the stench of the place, but hopefully it would clear up soon. He reared up on his back legs, stretching up until he stood almost eight feet high, spreading his wings out to their fullest. The muscle of his back pulled and burned as they stretched, and he felt a wash of relief, finally having the room to stretch out. Falling back on all fours, he furled his wings in and looked to Molly and John. His blogger and his pathologist. His _companions._ He would not call them friends. It was too inadequate of a word. They were companions: protectors, comforters, doctors, caretakers, partners. "I—I want to thank you," he said, and he could see the surprise on their faces. "Both of you have done much for me. More than anyone else has bothered to in a long time. I simply wanted you to know...your concern doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated." He shuffled his talons, then leant towards them, carefully lifting his forelegs to hug them as best he could without accidentally scratching them.

"Oi, get away from them!" shouted a voice, then the sharp cracks of gunshots split the air. Sherlock felt hot pain flash through him as a bullet just nicked his shoulder, another leaving a stinging graze across his tail. Molly screamed, John seized her shoulders, and they fell to the ground, covering their heads with their arms. Sherlock bristled with fury, his vision taking on a peculiar reddish tint. Someone tried to hurt his companions, tried to hurt _his_ pathologist, _his_ blogger. His jaw opened with a ferocious snarl, and he sprang forward towards the assailant. A whiff of cologne hit his sensitive nostrils.

_Lestrade!_ his mind screamed. _Bloody hell, how'd he get here?!_ Another bullet stung in his hip, not enough to puncture his scales but enough to smart plenty. Sherlock tore across the open space and tackled the Detective Inspector to the ground. Instinct screamed at him to rip out this weakling human's throat, to spill its blood for threatening his companions, to break its bones and make it beg for his mercy, but he reined it in powerfully, shoving aside those animalistic thoughts. He wrapped his tail tightly around the man's waist, pulling him down to the floor, and he wound himself around the DI, clutching him tight with his paws and tail, careful not to accidentally hurt him. Lestrade was writhing like a sack of rats, surprisingly powerful for a somewhat older fellow. The gun fired again, this time right into his right rear foreleg, and at such point-blank range, it punctured the flesh. He snarled in pain. "For the love of God, Lestrade, would you _stop_ shooting like a trigger-happy idiot and _hold still,_ damn it, or I may hurt you on accident!" Sherlock bellowed.

All at once, the squirming body in his grip went rigid, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. The DI looked up into Sherlock's face, going ashen. "Sh-Sherlock?" he gasped quietly.

* * *

No. No way. There was no way. It was impossible. There was no possible way—all caps, bold, italics, underline, no way—that Gregory James Lestrade had really just heard the lizard creature holding him speak. And speak with Sherlock's voice. And call him by name. He stared up into an expressive, scale-covered, intelligent face, a sleek muzzle full of teeth just a few inches away from his face, luminous gold eyes boring down into his. "Sherlock?" he repeated again.

"Yes, that is my name, Lestrade, you don't need to remind me of it," said the creature with the consulting detective's voice. It even had that practically-trademarked _why must I always be surrounded by idiots?_ tone of voice, rolling its bright yellow eyes in exasperation. "Now if I let go of you, will you actually keep a hold of yourself?"

Lestrade nodded rapidly, not sure that he could speak again. The warm, hard, scaly body that was coiled around his loosened, serpentine coils sliding away. And now he could see that it wasn't a creature: it was a dragon. Covered in black scales marked with silvery sparks with huge wings—those were what'd made its body look so oddly misshapen—and horns and a tail. "Wh-what—what—?" he stammered, unable to speak; his tongue had forgotten how to form words.

Molly and John both ran over. The doctor pulled Lestrade to his feet as Molly hastened over to the dragon—he'd dare not call it Sherlock—and began looking at the grazes on his scaly hide from the bullets. "I know, it's a lot to take in," said John quietly. He sounded far too calm for this situation, way too collected. "It really is Sherlock, Greg. We don't know how, we don't know why, but...it's him."

It took nearly half-an-hour to explain everything properly, and by the time they finished, Lestrade was sitting on the ground with his head in both hands, shoulders bowed forward. The other three stood there patiently, waiting for some kind of reaction from the Detective Inspector. After several long moments, the older man raised his head. "Okay. Lemme just...make sure I got this straight," he said. "Two weeks ago, Sherlock somehow got turned into a dragon, but none of you have any idea how. Since he grows like bloody bamboo, you decided to smuggle him out to an abandoned drug den and let him stay there because you didn't want your landlady to find out your flatmate's become a huge blinking winged lizard."

_God, it sounds so impossible when you say it like that, _John thought dryly. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

He grunted softly, head down. "Okay. Right. Oh, bloody hell, why can't you lot ever just be _normal?"_ he halfway shouted, lifting his head to look at them, then took a deep breath and closed his mouth, forcing himself to lower the volume of his voice. "I mean, I get that you're some kind of magnet to the weird and unusual, Holmes, but...God help me."

"What are you going to do now?" asked Molly. The young pathologist stood at the dragon's side, one hand resting on his back; the long, sinuous length of his tail was coiled around her legs.

_That is an excellent question. What _am_ I going to do?_ he thought to himself. "I don't think that there's much I'm gonna be able to do. Sherlock...if you stay here, you'd better not get into trouble. No drugs, no flying around, no breathing fire, and absolutely _no_ eating anyone!" he snapped, jabbing one finger at the winged reptile with a scowl.

Sherlock actually looked offended. "Lestrade, be reasonable. Why would I risk anyone discovering me? I have no intention of becoming a science experiment in a government lab. And if I was going to eat anybody, I would certainly not choose to eat an underweight, underfed, unsanitary drug addict. There is not much on them to eat anyways. I'd rather eat Donovan, though I imagine she'd end up giving me an upset stomach."

Lestrade stared at him. "For your sake, I hope that you're joking," he muttered, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Okay...I need to get back to the Yard. We'll talk about this later, John." He stood up and walked out to his car, running his hands back through his hair as he tried to sort out his chaotic thoughts. God, his life was never going to be bloody normal around Sherlock Holmes, was it?

* * *

Sherlock stretched out on the nest he'd constructed, something he could not do in the snug confines of the flat. He didn't like this place near as much as 221B, but it was going to have to suffice for now. He rose up and shook himself, climbing through the building. The elevator shaft was delightful fun to clamber up and down, and sometimes he would lay on his stomach and slide down the staircase because it tickled, and he would pry open the doors and explore the rooms. But he was getting bored. It was even more potent here because he had not his experiments to work with, no fridge to store his body parts, no working bathtub to grow his mold cultures in. As he climbed up the stairs towards the second level, a sudden thought gave him pause. According to the mythology, dragons could fly as well as breathe fire. He had wings, after all, but the flat had not given him the proper room needed to attempt flight. But...the building had a very large, open lobby overlooked by the second-floor balcony.

He walked to the edge of the balcony, looking downwards into the lobby. A large piece of the banister had rotted and been broken away some years ago when a struggle between dealer and buyer went horribly awry—if he looked closely, he could still see flecks of blood dried in the carpet below—and he stood in the gap, toes gripping the edge.

_It cannot be so difficult. Birds, bats, and insects manage it, usually from birth. Surely I can learn,_ he thought, spreading out his wings slowly. He had to think a moment to remember how to use all his new muscles, the ones responsible for the movements of his wings, but once he had reacquainted himself with them, Sherlock spread his wings out wide, tensed the muscles of his legs, and leapt...

...and John swore aloud as an abrupt, sudden pain flared up in his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks, reaching up to grasp at the offending shoulder. It was almost as if an invisible assailant suddenly came up and struck him as hard as possible, but it wasn't an actual pain, more like a remembered ache. He slid a hand beneath his shirt just to assure there was no wound, then shook his head and went back to work.

Downstairs in the morgue, Molly winced again as she felt that brief stab of sharp pain in both her left side and her hip. She didn't know why, but her aching pain would appear suddenly even if she was only sitting down, but then it'd fade away after a few seconds only to flare up anew several minutes later. Whatever it was, she wanted it to stop and quickly. Massaging her aching hip with one hand, she rose to her feet...

...as Sherlock picked himself up for what felt the hundredth time but what was really only the ninth. How could flying be so bloody hard? Growling and hissing, he streaked back up the stairs to stand at the edge of the balcony. The floor below was well-carpeted, but when he dropped like a bloody stone to the ground, it did little to cushion his landing. He had nearly managed to glide a short way on his third attempt, but he couldn't quite manage to turn before colliding with one of the decorative pillars in the lobby. _I am going to figure this out,_ he thought with hard determination. Already his body was a song of aches and pains, and several pieces of broken furniture below stood testament to his failures.

He sprang from the balcony again, flapping his wings...to no bloody avail at all. He managed to stair airborne for exactly seven-point-eight seconds before he went careening into the ground, doing a most ungraceful tumble across the carpeted floor before smashing headfirst into the front desk of the hotel lobby. A long string of furious swears came pouring out of his mouth. Sherlock staggered to his feet again, head spinning from the impact, and he turned and leapt onto a nearby couch; the rotting legs buckled beneath his weight, dropping two inches to the ground with a crash. He sank his fangs into the fabric, dug his claws in, and tore into it with ferocity, ignoring the foul taste of must, dirt, and rotted fabric. It simply felt good to vent his frustrations in a way that didn't hurt. Sherlock clamped his jaws around the wooden arm of the couch and ripped it away with a spray of wooden splinters. A spring was digging into the tender spot between his toes, so he ripped it out and twisted it into a knot. When the couch was at last no longer recognizable as a couch, he took a step backwards and viewed his work with satisfaction.

_Much better. Now about this bloody flying thing..._ He looked back up at the balcony and gritted his teeth.

* * *

_Three Days Later..._

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath. This was definitely not how he wanted to spend his day, but it had to be done. He'd already put it off long enough. Despising the unease in his gut, he glanced over at Anthea; his caretaker lingered beside him, waiting. When she saw him looking at her, a toothy grin crossed her face and she clapped him on the shoulder. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many people would be so brave as to do such a thing: Sherlock, Mummy, Father, and her. "Let's get it done, lizard-boy," she said cheekily, climbing into the car.

He gritted his teeth at both the nickname and her flippant tone, but he got into the car anyways, holding his umbrella in his lap, both hands wrapped securely around the handle. Since the windows were tinted, he had no fear of anyone outside seeing him, and he held one hand palm up, murmuring under his breath. With a muffled _pop_, green flame appeared in the palm of his hand, approximately the size of a softball. Seven years ago, when he'd gone through his own awakening, he'd discovered his own gift was spellweaving, fire spells in particular. It was uncommon—few dragons outside of the Temple clan were capable of spellweaving. Another part of his gift was the dragoncharm. It didn't alter the way people thought or brainwash them, but it made them _want_ to please him, to want his favour. His power was part of how he had achieved his position and held it so firmly for so long. Few could stand against him without feeling the effects of the magic that oozed off him, though there were a rare few resistant to him. Anthea was entirely immune, as was John Watson. Mycroft had discovered that interesting fact when he first attempted to bribe the doctor; had John not been immune to the dragoncharm, he would have accepted the money without a second thought.

The car stopped, and he snapped out of his thoughts abruptly. Mycroft had been so absorbed in his musings, he had not even noticed their arrival. He clenched his fist, allowing the flame to vanish. He did not rise or move, simply waited. The door opened, and in climbed Dr. Watson, looking somewhat irritated but also anxious. Before the good doctor could close the door, Mycroft stuck out his umbrella and held it open. "You as well, Dr. Hooper. If you would," he said smoothly, and he could hear the sound of her heart rate jump. Still, she did not hesitate to get in beside John.

_Scent of smoke: faint. Evidence of burns: none. Scent of raw meat and blood: nonexistent. They have not seen Sherlock in at least 36 hours. She is wearing new shoes, less than two days old and not yet broken in. Judging from the presence of minor chemical burn on her ankle, the last pair was ruined when corrosive liquid was spilled upon them. John has a new intern. He shows interest in a woman at his work but has not yet asked her on the date. She's already married anyways but chooses to hide the fact because she is unhappily wed,_ he deduced, raking his gaze over them. It was an automatic habit and one that soothed him. It was better for him than smoking.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" demanded John. "I already said I won't spy on Sherlock for you, and I know Molly won't, either."

Clear, concise, and to the point. Ah, Mycroft could always count on the good doctor to get to the point without meaningless drabble.

"Have no worries, Dr. Watson, I have no intention of attempting to purchase either of your services in observing my brother," he informed, sitting back comfortably in the seat. "No, I am afraid that the time has come for Sherlock to be told a few truths, and I require the two of you to be present when I tell him so."

Neither doctor outwardly reacted, but he could hear their heart rates increase, and he could smell the sharp, spicy odour of fear in the air.

"Don't be so alarmed. I am already well informed of my brother's...unusual circumstances, and may I commend you both on your excellent managing of the situation?" he asked.

_"What?"_ John spluttered, partially relived and indignant all at the same time. "You already bloody knew about this? Christ, Mycroft, why didn't you tell us right off? Why didn't you try to _help?!"_

Mycroft shifted his grip on the handle of his umbrella. That was not a question so easily answered. He had refrained from mentioning the truth of their heritage to Sherlock because, foolishly lead by his _caring_, he had wanted his brother to live as normal a life as possible, to not have to bear the weight of the secret he himself had borne since he was a child. Damn those ridiculous emotions. But now...now he had refrained from confronting Sherlock because he was uncertain of how his little brother would react to hearing the news. He didn't want Sherlock to fly into a rage and attack him; he wanted Drs. Hooper and Watson present because he knew them to have a calming effect upon his bothersome sibling's temper. "I have my own reasons," he replied at last, settling for the mysterious instead of revealing the truth.

"You're terrified," said Dr. Hooper, speaking for the first time since their drive began, and the two men shifted their eyes to her. She was a timid, mousy, quiet little thing in Mycroft's view, plagued by low self-esteem, a poor sense of self-worth, and a hopeless infatuation with his brother, but now dark brown eyes glared into his with startling intensity. "You're scared that he'll be so bloody furious that he was lied to, that you didn't tell him the truth, that he might do something stupid or reckless. You think he'll be less likely to do so with me and John there because you hope that he'll be less inclined to violent with us present."

Mycroft was so startled by her unexpected—and frightfully accurate—deductions that he blinked several times in shock. "Nonsense," he then scoffed, hastily drawing his mask of cool indifference back into place; inwardly, he cursed himself for allowing the brief slip in control.

But she shook her head doggedly. "Perfect sense. You're scared, and you want us there to act as a buffer between you and him because you're afraid he might try to attack you," she said with iron conviction.

_Damn,_ he thought. He narrowed his eyes slightly, caught off-guard, and he attuned all of his senses upon the pathologist that glared at him so steadily it was almost unnerving. To his shock, he realised that she was just as immune to his dragoncharm as John was, the magical aura that bent people to his will washing around her like water flows around a stone in a stream, unable to bend, unable to move. _Bleeding hell..._ He studied her intently. There was something familiar about her, something that he could not quite place but knew was there. Before he could puzzle out what it was, however, the car came to a stop outside of the abandoned hotel-turned-drug-den that his brother had taken up residence in.

Setting the puzzle of Molly Hooper aside, Mycroft opened the door and departed the car, standing there beside the open door. He gestured towards the door of the building with his umbrella. "Shall we, then?"

* * *

**A/N: bloody hell, that went longer than I thought it would. I know I said that I would reveal the truth about Sherlock's transformation in this chapter, but since it's already almost 6,000 words, I had to split it up into two chapters. ****Apologies for taking so long in getting this posted, but I had family issues that needed resolving and a whole big flipping mess that required my time. I am so thrilled at all the positivity this fic has been getting; thank you, everyone, for your support! Every time I see a new review or a follower, I do a little happy dance. Okay, maybe not a _little_ one...**

******Next Chapter—the _truth_ is revealed at last, the Game is afoot, and rumours of Sherlock's dragonification reaches sinister ears...(insert dramatic music).**


	5. Caretakers and Dragonslayers

**A/N: here it is, ladies and gentlefrogs, at long last: the truth behind Sherlock's transformation and the secret Mycroft's been keeping! I hope that the speedy update makes up for keeping you lot in suspense for so long. Don't be afraid to review and tell me what you think!**

* * *

The inside of the building was even worse than the outside: dark, layered with dust, and damp, judging by the smell. However, the smell of mildew was overridden by the scent of smoke and heat. Mycroft instantly disliked it, but at the same time, he approved of the location. This was the ideal place for a growing fledgling to hide from unwanted eyes. If anyone were to spot him, nobody would take the word of a heroin addict and/or alcoholic that said he saw a dragon in a building known for the distribution of drugs. He took in the claw gouges in the carpet and wall, the scorch marks, and the pile of shredded fabric, cotton, wood, and springs that he believed might have at one point been a sofa or chaise lounge.

"Sherlock?" called John, his voice carrying in the quiet gloom of the building. "Where are you, Sherlock?"

It was too quiet for the humans to hear, buy Mycroft picked up the faintest rustle of scaly movement. "What is _he_ doing here?" came a disembodied hiss from above. Their heads tilted back to see a glowing pair of bright yellow eyes peering down at them from the dark, gaping mouth of a hole in the ceiling high above.

"Good to see you as well, brother," replied Mycroft dryly. "Would you like to come down? And don't worry. I already know about your unfortunate appearance."

There a leathery rustle, and then a streak of silvery-black came swooping down from the ceiling to alight on the carpet. Sherlock had grown more in the past four days, growing from the size of a small pony to a very large horse. He was now taller than John at the shoulder, though that was still small by their kind's standards. Mycroft had seen portraits of the great Prince Kai before his death; the greatest monarch of their kind had reached the size of a barn and he'd yet to reach his fullest size. It was one of the perks of having royal blood. "What do you want?" Sherlock growled, wisps of smoke curling from between his teeth. He was not large enough to breathe flame just yet—for that, Mycroft was eternally grateful.

He shifted his umbrella to his other hand. "To speak with you. It's important that you listen to me now, even though I know you've never bothered to do so before," he replied, looking upwards into the dragon's luminous gold eyes. There were silvery markings around Sherlock's eyes, faint but still visible, almost like a mask. He did not like having to look upwards, especially when he had to look almost two feet upwards.

"Why did you kidnap John and Molly?"

"To keep you from doing something idiotic."

"And why would I do something idiotic?"

"When have you ever _not?"_ Mycroft asked, and he was answered by a deep-chested growl and a display of ivory white teeth as long as knife blades. He steadied himself and wished that he had spent more time studying the art of spellweaving a shield against attack. "Sherlock, this is not the time for petty sibling squabbles. There is something that I need to tell you, something that you need to know. I should have told you this a very long time ago, I fear."

The dragon sank down to sit on his haunches. "What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

Mycroft glanced around and gestured to a small fireplace off to the side; beside it were two armchairs that still looked somewhat decent. As they made their way across the lobby, Mycroft decided he'd had enough of this blasted shadowy gloom. He snapped his fingers sharply, and with a _crack,_ green flame sprang to life inside the fireplace, causing both John and Molly to startle and Sherlock to growl quietly. Ignoring his own disgust, he sat down in one of the armchairs, staring at his younger brother with that calm, carefully blank expression. "I am talking about our family, Sherlock. We are…not human. We're the last of an ancient bloodline, one that's been eradicated nearly into extinction," he said. "We Holmes are the direct descendants of the great firedrakes. Granted it has been somewhat diluted over the years, but ours is the blood of dragons, little brother."

"Explain," Sherlock hissed, steam and smoke venting from between his curved teeth, and all the spines down his backbone stood upright, quivering slightly. Molly and John both reached out simultaneously, laying their hands on the dragon's scaly hide without looking away from Mycroft.

"Very well. John, Molly, would you like to sit down?" Mycroft asked, though it wasn't really a question at all; the doctor sank down into the armchair. Molly remained on her feet, and Sherlock coiled his long tail around the pathologist. "Our curse began quite a long time ago, brother, longer than any can truly remember. In those days, magic and science were considered one and the same thing. Dragons existed, as did all manner of unsavoury creatures. Vampires. Lycanthropes. Witches. Everything that parents tell their children do not exist except in nightmares. Dragons were considered to be one of the highest authorities in the land, infinitely wise and extremely powerful. That is, until people became uneasy. Some did not like dragons, thought that we were too dangerous, too fickle. At first it began small, but then it grew and spread like a disease, poisoning the minds of the people against our kind. Understand, we are not easily killed. The only thing capable of truly killing us is a sword forged in the blood of a dragon. A party of humans were wise enough to wait for a dragon to die naturally before coming forward and draining it of blood. They then proceeded to forge the weapons to kill us. The age of dragonslayers had begun."

Mycroft paused and visibly shuddered. When he had been young, Father allowed him to read the Chronicles, and the illustrations had been pages of almost nothing but red. Nightmarish images had plagued his mind for weeks. "I cannot even begin to tell you how many of our kind died, Sherlock. Young or old, it did not matter. Raiding parties would invade nests, smash eggs, and run hatchlings through. Dragons had been such friends to the humans for so long, it was hard for us to harm them, but the line was drawn when the royal family was attacked. We have our own hierarchy, see, and our kind was led by Prince Kai, the greatest dragon of the age. A raiding party killed him in his sleep like cowards. That was the declaration of war.

"The Age of Fire and Blood, it is called in history books—our history books. Towns, cities, whole counties burned. Dragons were killed in hundreds, but we slaughtered humans in thousands. After years of killing each other, we retreated into the mountains with whatever remained of our people, willing to remain in our solitude, far away from humankind. The dragonslayers, however, were not so easily deterred. Even to the mountains they followed us, killing us where they could. We had no choice but to seek other choices. Throughout all of it, there were still some humans that favoured us. We called them _valhdesars,_ 'dragon-friends.' We had to seek refuge with the _valhdesars,_ in search of any kind of shelter. But even they could not protect us forever. So they used magic to protect us, trying to hide our true nature. They found a spell that could turn us into humans, at least…on the outside. There was a downside, though.

"The spell could not be fully undone once done. We would not be able to change back into our true dragon forms again. We would still have our magic, of course, our strength and speed and brilliant minds, but we would never again have our wings or our scales. It was…quite a difficult decision for some. But there were so few of us left, we could not afford to remain as we were any longer. Now, Prince Kai was dead, but his one and only child, Princess Luna, was still alive. She was the first to be transformed, and the others followed suit.

"We survived as humans for hundreds of years. Yes, there were some who died, unable to maintain their masquerade as well as others, but our species still survived. Now…we, the Holmes, are the direct descendants of Princess Luna, the last of the royal family." Mycroft rolled back his sleeve, showing them a pale, twisting birthmark on his forearm. "This is our mark, the sign that we are dragons. You have your own, Sherlock, though yours…it is different. Throughout the years as humans, when our kind reach our 33rd birthday, we go through a shift, the awakening of the dragon blood within us. However, there has never been a shift _quite_ like yours, though."

John's mind was reeling from the onslaught of new information, and he leaned back in the chair with a huff, trying to rein in his chaotic thoughts. Sherlock was silent, his tail still coiled around Molly's body as she stroked his neck. "Wait, you knew this would happen?" John asked suddenly.

Mycroft shifted in his seat. "Yes and no. Did I know that Sherlock would feel the shift on his 33rd birthday? Yes. Did I know that he would transform into a dragon as no other has since the day of the curse? No. Now, this does raise many questions—"

"Damn right it does!" John snapped angrily. His hands were in fists. "You couldn't have told us this before? You couldn't have warned us, given us some sort of bloody _clue?!_" he nearly shouted, and only Molly's free hand on his shoulder kept him from leaping at the elder Holmes with fists flying.

"I just believed it would be better off if Sherlock had a chance to live as normal a life as possible," Mycroft replied tightly. "Obviously I was wrong, but by then it was too late. All I could do was wait until his 33rd birthday and hope that he would understand."

Sherlock had been silent all this time, a fact that Mycroft was not sure whether to be reassuring or terrifying. His glowing yellow eyes focused on his elder brother with startling intensity. At last, he uncoiled his tail from Molly's waist and stood up. There was no warning, just a blur of movement that was almost too fast to follow. The black dragon leapt across the space between them, wrapped one forepaw around his brother, and tore him roughly out of the armchair, flinging him to the ground with no small measure of force. Before Mycroft could catch his breath or think of a single spell to mutter, Sherlock was crouched over him, using his sharp-clawed paws to keep him pinned down. A muzzle full of fangs was less than an inch from his face; the heat of his breath was hot enough to blister, a snarl ripping out of his throat, the vibrations shaking in Mycroft's bones.

"Sherlock, _don't!"_ cried two voices in unison as the dragon's mouth opened wide, teeth lunging downwards with murderous intent.

_SNAP!_

The sound of the dragon's jaw closing millimetres away from Mycroft's left ear was deafeningly loud, a noise not unlike that a bear trap would make when triggered. Sherlock's low, ferocious growl tapered away as he lifted his head. He removed his paws from his elder brother and slunk backwards several steps. Mycroft pushed to his feet, not allowing himself to wince in pain and show Sherlock how much being tossed around hurt. _"That," _he said icily, "was not very nice of you, brother mine."

"Do not piss me off when I am a dragon, brother mine," Sherlock answered in just as cold of a voice, though he sounded quite pleased with himself. He knew full well that he had rattled his brother, something he had rarely ever accomplished. He lingered a moment longer, only to lightly nuzzle the doctor and the pathologist before he streaked away like a black shadow, crawling up the lift shaft and disappearing from their sight in the blink of an eye.

Mycroft dusted off his trousers and jacket, though he was going to have them burnt the moment he returned home. Molly and John were both staring at the lift shaft his brother had slithered away through, concern written clearly across their faces. "Shall I return you to your homes now?" he asked; they turned to glare at him. "You know as well as I do he will want to be alone for some time to brood on his thoughts like a petulant child. We'll see no more of him tonight."

There was a long hesitation, but then the doctors shuffled after him, following him back outside to where the car waited. "That went well," noted Anthea with a snarky note to her voice as they got inside. No doubt she had felt the surge of Mycroft's fear and pain from Sherlock's attack, and she no doubt found it to be hilarious.

He resisted the urge to snarl at her, already sore and aching. "St. Bart's Hospital," he ordered, seeing as the good doctors had to return to their jobs.

As they drove, he glanced at the two doctors sitting in his car. No doubt they were brimming with questions, but both were too irritated with him to ask. He realised suddenly why Dr. Hooper had seemed so familiar. She was a caretaker. No wonder she had been immune to his dragoncharm before. It also explained why she had no fear of Sherlock even though she was fearful of most everything else, why she was able to calm him at a touch. "You two are important in this as well, you know," he said at last.

"What?" snapped John as Molly asked, "How?"

Mycroft leant back into his seat, feeling the ache in his back from striking the ground so hard. "Yes, John, Molly, you are both very important. I did a little digging into your family histories. You are a _calon-cyfailles,_ which is the dragon's word for caretakers. The caretakers were a special kind of _valhdesar._ Once our kind became human, we needed help assuming our new identities. Only a select few, the _calon-cyfailles_, were chosen for the task of watching over dragons in their human form. You two are their descendants. I'm not surprised. I suspected it to be true the moment that Sherlock befriended you. Dragons, even those not aware of their heritage, are drawn towards _calon-cyfailles_. It's a natural attraction, I suppose. Anthea, for example, is my caretaker. She and I have been companions for many years now."

"Unfortunately," came the muttered reply from the driver's seat.

He resisted the urge to jab the back of the seat with his umbrella.

Molly was still staring, a small frown on her face. John gave a snort, a slightly hysterical attempt at a laugh. "We're Sherlock's bloody caretakers. That's just _great._ Fantastic. We're a pair of bloody babysitters for the scaly git," the doctor snorted, shaking his head.

"The term caretaker does _not_ mean you are babysitters," Mycroft growled, a flare of irritation passing through him. Automatically, Anthea reached for him across the bond, soothing away the aggravation. No matter how flippant she was, she still cared. "Caretakers...they have the highest respect amongst our kind, the closest that we can come to putting a human on equal standing with us as far as status goes. In the days before the dragonslayers, the term _calon-cyfaille_ was a title to be worn with pride. They were _not_ babysitters. They were our friends, our confidants, our protectors, our companions. They rescued us from our extinction and helped us to hide in a world that no longer had a place for our kind." He stopped himself before he entered a full-blown rant. "Sherlock...he _needs_ you two. No dragon is supposed to be without a caretaker. It is...unhealthy for us. Already you have noticed the bond forming."

"Bond?" Molly repeated.

"Yes. We form a bond with our caretakers, a link that is not influenced by time or distance. Through it, we are able to sense their emotions as they are able to feel our own. If I were injured, Anthea would know it instantly because she can feel my pain across the bond. If she were saddened, I would know it because I can feel her sorrow," Mycroft explained patiently. "You would not have felt it before because Sherlock had not yet gone through the shift. But once his dragon's blood awoke, the link began to form. Surely you must have noticed it. Have either of you felt...odd lately? A surge of emotion that is not your own?"

Both doctors went quiet, thinking of that ghostly pain they'd felt, that consistent feeling of frustration and anger in the backs of their minds even though neither had any reason to be angry. They had been feeling Sherlock's own anger as he tried and failed to fly, crashing into the floor numerous times.

Mycroft nodded slowly, knowing they understood now. "That is because you are his caretakers," he said. As the car came to a stop in front of the hospital, he put out his umbrella, halting John and Molly's exit from the car. "You won't leave him, will you?" he asked, his voice level and calm, not betraying the fear he felt. Mycroft had been linked to Anthea since he was a teenager, he had always had a caretaker even before he truly needed her. Sherlock, however, had never been allowed that, he'd never had that soothing presence to keep him on the right path and set his mind straight, and the result was not a pretty one: drug addiction, a downward spiral of self-destruction, and a near-death-experience from an overdose of impure heroin. Mycroft constantly feared for him; he had to know Sherlock would be safe.

Both blogger and pathologist stared at the elder Holmes, and just for a second, they glimpsed the man behind the icy mask of deductions and cold logic. They saw a big brother that truly loved his baby brother, constantly worried over his well-being, and wanted only for him to be happy and safe. Molly's voice was soft and quiet, barely more than a murmur, but the five short words she spoke did more to soothe Mycroft's fears than anything else.

"Where else would we go?"

* * *

Meanwhile in London, another question was being asked: "You're certain of it? You aren't mistaken?"

"No, sir, I'm certain. I saw it myself. Huge, black as coal, and getting bigger every day."

The man sitting beside the window felt a grin stretch across his face, though it could hardly be described as a smile, more like a predator's show of teeth before the attack. "Leave me," he said quietly; the servant in the doorway nodded and scurried out of the room, pulling the door shut. Once the footsteps faded away down the halls, the man rose to his feet, still grinning. Oh...oh, this was simply perfect. Beyond perfect. It was resplendent! All these long decades, the Guild had called his family paranoid, had said there were no more dragons left, that the abominations were extinct. They had grown fat, lazy, and weak, like cats living off cream. But not his family. No, they had known that the mice were still in the walls, hiding in their tunnels, waiting.

And now the mouse had left his hole.

The man crossed the room and pulled open the door leading to his secret room, the armoury his parents left him. In it was all they had stolen from the Guild over the years, all the precious weaponry and knowledge they'd accumulated over the long, long years. He'd read all the books and knew each by heart. He was more than proficient with each weapon in the room. With soft footsteps, he crossed the room to the wall of weapons: six daggers of varying length, two dozen bolts, a matching pair of axes, and a one-handed longsword. The passage of time did nothing to the sharpness of their edges or the strength of their blow. The metal gleamed as pure and bright as it did the day it was forged from the blood of the dragon. The Guild had discovered that the strength of a weapon varied depending upon the dragon whose blood it was forged in. These were the ones made from the blood of Kai, the last Dragon Prince.

He reached up and lifted the longsword from its place, gripping the hilt in one hand and feeling its weight, as familiar to him as his own arm, an extension of his self. The dragons were not dead. He'd known it for years. There was no possible way those disgusting lizard-lovers, those _valhdesars,_ would have let their pets die out. No, they were a clever lot. They'd have found a way. And now...he knew it was a fact.

Turning around, he took the scabbard from its place on the wall and slid the sword home in the sheath, buckling the strap around him so that the sword rested against his back. Then he gathered up the bolts and axes and daggers. They would be melted down and the metal recast into bullets; as much as he enjoyed the old ways, it was a new age, and guns had such a more effective range than a crossbow bolt. But the sword...ah, the sword he would keep. He might use the bullets to slow the lizard down, but he would use the sword that'd belonged to his family for generations to run the creature though and stop that vile heart beating.

He was the Dragonslayer, the last true dragonslayer.

The Hunt had begun.


	6. Spilt Blood and Broken Bone

**A/N: I am so, so, so sorry for taking so long with this update. Please forgive me! I had to grapple with everyone's worst nightmare—the Block of Writer's. That being said, I am totally open to suggestions or ideas on where to head with this fic. All I ask is that said suggestions/ideas fit the story arc and aren't off-the-wall crazy. Please review, tell me what you think, and thank you to all the people that have stuck around to read this far.**

**Also, warning to any squeamish readers, there is a murder scene in this chapter. Nothing _really_ graphic, but there is blood and violence. **

* * *

Sherlock woke up in a place that was _not_ 221B and was _not_ the hotel suite he'd turned into his own nest. Instantly, he was on his feet and bristling with awareness, eyes coming open wide as pre-battle adrenalin flooded his system, sharpened his senses, and accelerated his heart rate, blood pumping faster. The spines along his back stood upright, and his wings fanned open slightly. His lips curled away from his teeth in an automatic snarl, a low growl slipping from the depths of his chest.

"You sound like a dog and your manners are not much better," said a dry voice, and he growled once more, this time from irritation instead of defenciveness.

"The hell am I, Mycroft?" he snarled, sitting back on his haunches as he looked at his elder brother. Even as the words left his mouth, his mind was already taking in details of the surrounding room. It was large—huge, matter of fact, more like a warehouse than a room. Built to accommodate his growing size, no doubt. There were rafters aplenty and a large, spacious loft overhead. Part of him was itching to start climbing about in them. There were several trees, not false replicas but actual trees, which meant that the room had been built around them. There was no floor; there was dirt and grass beneath his paws, but it felt...different. Hollow, somehow. _There is a cellar below,_ he realised suddenly. The roof was made of glass, allowing sunlight to pour through. He briefly wondered why there would be a glass ceiling—how easy it would be for a plane or helicopter to see him—but there was a strange tint to the glass. Ah, it was mirror-tinted: he could see out, but nobody could see in. Clever, surprisingly so. "You had me moved to a safe-house," he said, moving his gaze back to his brother.

Mycroft wrapped both hands around the handle of his umbrella. "Yes. There has been talk, brother mine. Rumours of a 'monster' living in a former drug den. I didn't think it safe to keep you there any longer," he answered. "So I had you moved here. Much more accommodating, isn't it?"

"How did you get me here?" Sherlock demanded. Even as a dragon, he slept lightly, so if his unsavoury brother did try to have his lackeys transport the detective, he would have woken the moment they stepped into his territory. His lips curled away from his teeth once more, claws digging into the soil. "What did you drug me with?" The words left him in a snarl.

"No drug," came the fluid reply. "I simply enchanted your mind so that you would stay asleep until I removed the spell."

A ferocious hiss spat from his teeth, the sound as low and threatening as a swarm of angry wasps. The idea of being manipulated so, of being _forced_ do to anything, even sleep, rankled him so badly it was near maddening.

Mycroft tilted his head. "Now, brother, do calm yourself. It is not so easy for me to do such a thing. You were...stubborn. It took a great deal of effort to keep you asleep for even that short time," he said in a placating tone.

Seeing the ashen colour of the man's face and the slight tremble of his hands on the umbrella, Sherlock believed him for once, a rarity in and of itself. "How far am I from London?" he asked at last.

A small smile pulled at the elder Holmes' lips. _Why would he not just ask "How far am I from Drs. Hooper and Watson?"__ and be done with it?_ he thought to himself. Sherlock was starting to display some of his more dragonish nature, becoming more possessive of things that he viewed as his—items and people both—and the good doctors were right at the top of the list in his 'treasure hoard.' Mycroft would taunt his younger sibling with the sentimentality, but he would not. He understood all too well the desire that one felt to be close to their caretakers. He himself grew uneasy when he did not see Anthea for several days. "They could be here in ten minutes, given the traffic," Mycroft replied. "I have already texted them both the address."

The dragon was already losing interest in their conversation and was looking around his new surroundings with fascination. He looked upwards, tensed his hind legs, and sprang up to the rafters in a fluid bound, pulling himself up with ease. "Good," said Sherlock briskly. "That'll be all, Mycroft." He flicked his tail slightly in dismissal, slinking along the rafters in exploration.

_Scaly git,_ Mycroft thought as he turned to walk out of the door. _Of course, one can never expect gratitude from Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

"Where is the dragon?" he asked in a low whisper. His voice was almost sinful in its timbre and tone, like the richest wine or finest chocolate, like velvet rubbed the wrong way. He'd had enemies in the past cave simply from the sound of his voice.

The lizard-lover, however, did not crack so easily.

"Piss off," spat the _valhdesar_, the words slightly garbled by a mouthful of blood but no less venomous. "I'll not tell you."

The Dragonslayer sighed wearily. "Why must you make things difficult? I've already broken enough of your bones. Must I break more? Simply tell me where the dragon is, and I will let you go." It was a lie. He would kill the miserable witch in front of him for associating with those overgrown geckoes, for choosing _animals_ over members of her own species.

Lying bruised and broken on her kitchen floor, surrounded by her own blood, the witch still found the gall to spit at him; a spray of warm blood hit his face, making him lean away in disgust. "You are even stupider than I thought if you think I'll tell you anything," she hissed. "I suppose all that inbreeding has turned your brains to mush, eh? You pathetic lot have always had to marry in your own family." She gave a choked, gurgling laugh, more blood bubbling out of her mouth and dribbling down her cheek. "Nobody else was mad enough to try and tangle with you, 'specially not between the sheets!" Another wet laugh forced its way past her lips.

He took a tea towel from the countertop and wiped his face clean, looking down at the witch on the floor. She was a small thing to begin with, and she looked even smaller and frailer now, with her arms at unnatural angles, scarlet flowers blooming across her white nightgown; in the moonlight, her blood looked almost black. Each laboured breath caused her pain, she was slowly drowning in her own blood, and yet she could still insult him and his family. The Dragonslayer truly did hate _valhdesars,_ almost as much as he hated their scaly friends, but at the same time, he admired their mulish refusal to give in even when they've lost. "Is that so?" he asked in a low, deadly tone.

Her pale, blood-flecked lips curved into a smile. "It is," she replied. "Our time has come again, _vargasch,_ and there's nothing you can do about it!"

That word, that dragontongue insult of the lowest sort, signaled the end of his patience. With a practiced stroke, the Dragonslayer pulled the sword from its sheath, allowing the moonlight to shine across the blade and turn it to silver flame; he had the pleasure of seeing her eyes widen slightly in fear. Oh yes, she knew what this weapon was. "Last chance. Where is the dragon?" he asked.

_"Vargasch! Urkris lai austrat! Corăs di iri'dara siien holthiŭ!"_ she shrieked, a rather impressive feat with punctured lungs and numerous broken ribs.

"Guess not then." He raised the sword high, clutching the hilt in both hands; the deadly point of the blade hovered just above her chest, over her heart. He met her eye directly; they were a rather attractive shade of green, currently blazing with fury and hatred. "I _will_ find him eventually, _valhdesar,_ and I _will_ kill him." The Dragonslayer brought the sword down with so much force that it went clean through her body and several inches into the floor beneath, nearly puncturing the ceiling of the flat below. She did not scream, but her body arched involuntarily, mouth open in a silent scream.

He could hear a soft sputtering noise as she struggled to speak even as her blood formed a rapidly blossoming pool under her. He bent at the waist, keeping one hand on the sword hilt for balance, and tilted his head to better hear her. Her words were thread-thin and weak, garbled by blood, but he understood them well enough. "Not...if he...kills y'...first," she whispered. The _valhdesar_ shuddered one last time, then the light faded from those fiery green eyes as she died.

He leant away and yanked the blade free, causing her tiny body to jerk. Even though he'd killed the little wretch, her words still lingered in his mind: _our time has come again and there's nothing you can do about it!_ What could she have meant? Surely she did not mean that the dragons were rising up again. No, those lizards surely weren't _that_ stupid. Either way, if this was the start of some uprising, he would be sure to kill it at its root and be done with it. Wiping the blade clean on the tea towel, he slid the sword home to its sheath, stepped over the body, and walked out of the flat. On to the next _valhdesar_ on his list, see if he could not wring a little more information out of the next lizard-lover before he killed them.

* * *

"Oi, boss! Think I got a case for Freaklock," said Donovan as Lestrade stepped out of the lifts, holding a file in one hand.

He made a _hmm_ noise into his coffee, indicating for her to go on.

"Vivienne Marchant, 31 years old. She's got a clean record, utterly spotless, not even a parking ticket, right?" Donovan asked, then barreled on without waiting for an answer. "This morning, downstairs neighbour notices that something red is leaking from his ceiling. Goes up to Vivienne's flat, finds her dead on the kitchen floor. Turns out that it was her blood leaking through his ceiling."

Lestrade frowned slightly. "How in the hell did her blood get all the way through the floor to leak from the downstairs ceiling?" he wondered.

"_That's_ where it gets real interesting, boss. Vivienne was stabbed to death. One clean jab, straight through the heart. Thing is, whoever stabbed her was strong enough to put the murder weapon _through_ her body and about 15 centimetres _(roughly six inches)_ into the floor, which is how her blood got into the downstairs ceiling. Not to mention, she took one hell of a beating before she was stabbed. Both arms snapped clean, every rib broken or fractured, internal bleeding, ruptured spleen, lung punctures in three places, minor concussion, fractured collarbone—"

"Christ, it sounds like she got hit by a _truck_," he said, shaking his head.

Donovan nodded her assent, still holding the file tightly in hand. "And Hooper just called from the morgue. She said that the murder weapon wasn't a knife or dagger. According to her, we're looking for a bloody _sword._"

They walked into his office; Lestrade sat behind the desk as she perched on the edge of it, looking almost feverishly excited. If the DI didn't know her any better, he'd say that Donovan actually _wanted_ him to call in Holmes for this case. "Right, well, leave it on my desk," Lestrade said. "I'll take a look, run it by Holmes later. According to John, he hasn't been taking many cases lately, just keeps searching for this Moriarty bloke. I'll let you know if he takes it." The lie was bitter in his mouth because he knew Holmes wouldn't take the case. Not because the 'consulting detective' didn't want to, but because he was currently covered in scales and roughly the size of a Clydesdale horse. It still gave him shivers to imagine Sherlock as a dragon. Donovan, apparently satisfied with his words, left the office, file placed on his desk. After a moment, he drew it towards him and opened it up. The glossy crime scene photos were real stomach-churners. Vivienne Marchant was a tiny, petite thing, almost girlish despite being in her thirties, which somehow made her grievous wounds look all the more horrendous. There were bloodstains on her white nightgown, the most noticeable being in the centre of her chest where the stab wound was. Her face was discoloured and swollen from bruises, both arms at unnatural angles at her sides, a great pool of crimson spread out beneath her. _God, Sherlock _would_ have loved this one,_ he thought. A woman with no criminal history, no enemies, no involvement in anything illegal at all suddenly beaten and run through with a sword? That was Holmes Christmas right there. He sighed quietly and closed the file, sliding it aside. _No calling Sherlock for this one. He's probably too busy hoarding treasure or stealing livestock, _he thought with a snicker, _because there's no way in hell he'd touch a woman, even if she was a virgin._

* * *

**A/N: again, so sorry it took me over a month to get this done. I know it's kinda short, but the Block of Writer's is indeed a mighty foe, but the pen is mightier than the sword! Or something like that. Don't be afraid to send me suggestions/ideas as long as you keep it reasonable and it fits in the story.**

**Next chapter—Sherlock flies (at last!), the Dragonslayer targets his next victim in his search for the Dragon, and Molly gets hurt, invoking some serious dragon protectiveness. **


End file.
